


You've Made Your Bed (Now Lie In It)

by hart_and_sole



Series: Roaring in my Heart [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Topping from the Bottom, Unreliable Narrator, non-standard a/b/o dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-04
Updated: 2012-01-04
Packaged: 2017-10-28 22:11:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/312704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hart_and_sole/pseuds/hart_and_sole
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jackson looks for answers, all the while continuing to struggle with his newfound instincts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You've Made Your Bed (Now Lie In It)

**Author's Note:**

> AU in that Scott and Allison never got back together.
> 
> Again, non-standard a/b/o dynamics, that will eventually develop into a very much equal relationship, pack hierarchy notwithstanding.

It had been almost a month, and still Jackson was no closer to understanding just what in the hell had happened back in that locker room. Oh, he got that his wolf had…malfunctioned, somehow, but he still couldn’t come to terms with his total lack of self control.  
  
He could shift at will, hone in on conversations a mile away, bend steel with his bare hands - but he couldn’t seem to stop himself from letting some kid bend him over a locker room bench and fuck him raw.  
  
It would be easier if he could just rest all the blame at Scott’s feet, only…he’d wanted it. He couldn’t deny that. Scott’s wolf had called to his and he had let it happen. He hadn’t fought it at all.  
  
He didn’t want to see Scott because he could think of nothing more torturous than having to sit there looking at Scott McCall’s earnest, puppy dog face as he tried to talk about… _feelings_ , or whatever other awkward, completely unwanted conversation the kid would undoubtedly try to initiate.  
  
He didn’t want to see Scott because he was afraid of what might happen. What he might _let_ happen. So he’d avoided him, as much as he was able.  
  
Then Jackson had done what he always did when he felt like a failure: he made himself work harder. He’d started by pestering Derek into training him.  
  
“I’ve already trained you,” Derek had said at first, dismissively.  
  
Derek did pretty much everything dismissively, as far as Jackson could see, so he’d bulled on in his usual careless fashion. “Not well enough, obviously,” he'd replied, eyebrow raised in casual disdain.  
  
Apparently the best way to get Derek to do something was to insult his leadership, because that very night he’d started ‘training’ Jackson like he was trying to punish him. He probably was.  
  
He’d started off by chasing Jackson through the woods, firing arrows from a crossbow every now and again for good measure. “Use your senses!” he’d growled as Jackson just managed to miss acquiring an arrow through his eye.  
  
Jackson had spent the next hour being run into exhaustion until Derek finally caught up to him, shooting an arrow through the sleeve of his thousand dollar leather jacket, the slightest sliver of leather between him and a bolt of mountain ash. “Do you have any idea how much his cost?”  
  
“If I was an Argent, you’d be dead,” Derek had said flatly as he’d pulled the arrow out.  
  
“I’m faster than him, though, right?”  
  
“What the hell are you talking about?”  
  
“McCall. I’m faster than McCall, right?”  
  
Derek had only rolled his eyes.  
  
The next test had been hand to hand. They’d fought tooth and claw and Jackson gave it everything he had. Derek had still beat him every time.  
  
‘Derek’s been a ’wolf his whole life,’ he’d consoled himself. ‘I bet he’d have beat Scott in half that time.’ He didn’t want to think about his horrible desire to offer up his throat each time Derek pinned him.  
  
On his first full moon he’d paced in tight circles in the Hale basement while Derek watched silently from the other side of the cage he’d built; feeling the itch of a moon he couldn’t see on his skin; the agony of change in his limbs; the murderous urge to _hunt_ , _kill_ , _fuck_. He’d focused on glowing red eyes in the dark, said through a mouthful of sharp teeth, “McCall must have been a pain in the ass his first full moon, right? He try to kill anyone?”  
  
That seemed to be the moment Derek lost his last shred of patience. After an initial warning to “Shut the fuck up about Scott, for God’s sake, or you can damn well ask _him_ to train you,” Derek now mostly communicated in a series of monosyllabic grunts. Jackson had taken the hint.  
  
So now here he was, basically back where he started: senses honed to perfection, but still at the mercy of his wolf’s instincts. Avoidance it was then. Easier said than done, when he had to share a school with the kid. And a lacrosse team. And a co-captaincy.  
  
He made it all the way to lunch that day. He’d been careful up until now to sit as far away from Scott as possible in the cafeteria, and facing the opposite direction when possible, but today he was running late and the only space that wouldn’t make him a social pariah was with Lydia and Allison, the next table over from Scott and Stiles.  
  
He hovered next to the table, actually considering moseying on over to the gathering of calculus nerds in the far corner, before Allison grabbed him by the arm, laughing sweetly. “What are you doing? Sit down already.”  
  
He sat, trying to smile back for Allison, making it wide and beauteous when he noticed Lydia glaring daggers across from them. She was looking better - still pale and a little ragged, but infinitely better than the bloody, lifeless girl that had lain in that hospital bed. A sincere ‘are you feeling alright?’ would never wash with Lydia - the queen of repression - so he settled for a breezy, “How’s life treating you, girls?”  
  
It could have been a nice lunch - Allison was sweet and charming and so perfect it almost made him want to puke, and getting Lydia’s hackles up was always fun, especially when she was obviously well enough to poke back - only he could feel those eyes on him, and could barely let himself look away from his food for fear of catching that glance.  
  
What was worse was that part of him wanted it; was drawn to Scott like a flower to sunlight.  
  
Glutton for punishment that he was, Jackson looked up.  
  
As predicted, Scott was watching him. What wasn’t quite so expected was the fierce, focused intent on his face. “You can’t avoid me forever,” he murmured lowly.  
  
It felt like a whisper, right in his ear. Jackson shivered. Of course, Jackson never could turn down a challenge, so he fake-yawned, rubbing his face to hide his mouth as he whispered, “Wanna bet?”  
  
“Rough night, Jackson?” Allison asked, all doe eyed concern.  
  
Jackson snorted. “Rough month,” he muttered.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Nothing,” he said, turning towards her with his most charming smile. If Scott was going to gawk at him, he’d damn well give him something to watch. “I’ve just been practicing so hard for State finals. I hope you’ll be there to cheer me on..?”  
  
“Of course! I take my cheerleading very seriously. We both do, don’t we Lydia?”  
  
Lydia tried on a saccharine, frankly quite demented grin, said flatly, “Go team.”  
  
“Lydia,” Jackson said, hand to heart mockingly, “as always, it’s great to have you in my corner.”  
  
Lydia just rolled her eyes and stabbed her mystery meat. Jackson found himself relaxing despite himself, eased by the comfort of routine. He’d never bring himself to admit it, but he’d missed sparring with Lydia. He relaxed even more when he saw Scott and Stiles leave from the corner of his eye. ‘Yeah,’ he thought to himself, ‘I can do this.’  
  
That ‘can do’ attitude lasted all the way to lacrosse practice.  
  
He’d done a good job of keeping the contact to a minimum on the field up until now, but today Scott seemed to be constantly gravitating towards him. It felt like he couldn’t take a step without Scott shadowing him, bumping shoulders; hips; whatever part of him was in easy reach.  
  
Worse than that was the expression of complete and total bewilderment that went with it - like even Scott couldn’t figure out why he was doing it. It would probably be easier to deal with if he was just trying to be a dick. It didn’t help to know he wasn’t the only one fighting against instinct - just made the losing of it seem that much more inevitable.  
  
He trudged into the shower when practice was finally, finally done, mind blank and body on autopilot. He stood under the spray, letting the sound of the water and its pulse on his skin lull him into some kind of peaceful trance.  
  
It was footsteps on the tile, rather than the cooling temperature of the water that brought him back to focus. Of course once he was fully awake suddenly the water felt like ice cold needles on his skin, and he jumped back, cursing.  
  
Someone let out a snort of laughter, and Jackson jerked around to see Scott standing in the doorway, half naked, head tilted consideringly at him. “You have a thing for running water too?”  
  
Jackson scrambled for his towel, feeling suddenly vulnerable. “What?” he muttered once he’d tied it round his waist and shut off the water.  
  
“I don’t know. Ever since I was bit, it seems like whenever I get upset or freaked out, nine times out of ten you’ll find me in the water.” Scott shrugged. “Are you freaked out, Jackson?”  
  
“The only thing freaking me out is the fact that you’re standing there perving on me. And you’re in my way,” Jackson snapped, all bluster, moving quickly to shove past Scott.  
  
Scott blocked him in.  
  
“When did you grow a backbone?” Jackson scoffed, hiding his growing unease.  
  
“One,” Scott bit out, poking him in the chest, “I _was not_ perving on you. Two.” Poke. “I’m not some goddamn coward.” Poke. “And three, would you please stop avoiding the issue? You can’t just keep trying to sweep this under the rug -”  
  
“Sure I can,” Jackson replied with false cheer, and tried to shoulder past Scott once more. Scott grabbed him by the bicep and he could feel the electricity crackling and snapping between them as if it had just been waiting for a conduit. They both shuddered.  
  
Scott’s eyes gleamed gold before he forced down his wolf with a juddering sigh, closing his eyes briefly. When he opened them again they were brown, and looking at Jackson seriously. “Don’t tell me you didn’t feel that.”  
  
Jackson didn’t. He couldn’t. He closed his eyes and leaned against the wall, banging his head back.  
  
“I don’t know how it happened. And now every time I see you I just want to shove you down and -”  
  
“I get the picture,” Jackson cut in, glaring. He squirmed, trying to ease the…interest…certain parts of him had shown in that statement.  
  
Scott shrugged, apologetic. “Sorry. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to stop this. If you would just talk to Derek about -”  
  
“No! Fuck you, and no! You want to spread this…this _ignominy_ around to other people, then you do it your God damn self!”  
  
“You’re his pack, there’s no reason why you couldn’t just ask…and what the hell is ignominy?”  
  
Jackson rolled his eyes heavenward. “For the sake of humanity, buy yourself a damn dictionary. More importantly, stop being such a child.”  
  
“How the hell am I being childish? Because I’d rather avoid talking to the guy who completely ruined my chances of ever being normal again? I mean, if I _have_ to I -”  
  
“Because you have _everything_ , and you want to give it back!” It came out almost a scream, born of frustration. His claws dug into his clenched fists, and he took a swing at Scott, unthinking.  
  
Scott snarled, blocking the punch with one hand. He stood there, breathing harshly, visibly trying to contain the wolf. He lunged.  
  
Then suddenly they were kissing; all teeth and tongues and bruising, grasping hands. It felt like release - like _this_ had been what his body had been crying out for since the first time, and all through the long, long month of separation.  
  
Scott was sucking hickies on his neck, and Jackson was squirming, writhing, _dying_ , when the door creaked open.  
  
“Scott?” Stiles voice called. “Where are you - oh. That’s what’s been taking you so long. Okay. So, is this a thing now? Because I’m not judging! Just two guys making out in the shower, no big deal…”  
  
They scrambled apart, still thankfully, mercifully clad in their towels. Jackson closed his eyes, hoping the vision of Stiles in the doorway would disappear.  
  
“Stiles -” Scott said, stiffly. Jackson had no difficulty imaging the blush that went with it. “Could you just...go? _Please_? I’ll - I’ll catch you later.”  
  
“Sure,” Stiles murmured. A few seconds later the door creaked open and closed again.  
  
“He’s gone,” Scott said quietly.  
  
Jackson took a deep breath before opening his eyes. He could feel his face flaming.  
  
Scott had disappeared, but Jackson could hear him in the next room, and the rustle of clothes told him he was getting dressed. He reappeared a moment later, pulling a shirt over his head. “We’re not finished here,” he said, voice firm, decisive.  
  
Jackson bobbed his head in agreement. They could move forward, or they could try to fix this - somehow - but they had to do _something_.  
  
“Meet me at my house, ten o’clock? My mom’s working a late shift - she won’t bother us.”  
  
That could mean any number of things, really. “Fine,” he said, trying not to think about what he was going there to do. Something had to give. The fact that he was still hard as diamonds had nothing to do with it. Nope. Not at all.  
  
Scott nodded, shifting about awkwardly for a moment or two, as if deciding whether to say anything more, before finally leaving.  
  
Jackson groaned, and punched the wall in a fit of frustrated rage, leaving a perfectly round crater of smashed tiles in his wake. He stepped over the shards, pulled off his towel again and reached for the shower dial. He stood under ice cold water until all thought was gone from his head.  
  
***  
  
When thought returned, one in particular kept repeating in his mind. Stiles Stilinski knew. Stiles Stilinski, who had a particular problem with running his mouth, and had the added incentive of, if not outright hating Jackson’s guts, several good reasons to dislike him pretty intensely.  
  
His paranoia found him lurking outside Stiles’ house in the bushes. Scott was there when he got there (as was Sheriff Stilinski, puttering around in the dining room with an armful of files) and Jackson spied on them, mostly out of boredom, as they prepared dinner together. He was almost fascinated by the practiced ease and synchronicity they showed as they moved around the kitchen, chopping and sautéing and putting on pasta to boil. It smelled good, when the three of them sat down to dinner - better than anything two teenage boys should have been able to come up with. He wondered where they had learned - or why they would bother to.  
  
Jackson’s stomach rumbled, but his continued dignity (what was left of it) insisted he wait where he was. Eventually his patience was rewarded, with Sheriff Stilinski driving back to work to retrieve an errant file and Scott finally deciding to go home.  
  
Stiles was glued to his computer screen when Jackson moved silently into his room.  
  
“‘Mating habits of wolves.’ I really hope that’s not for my benefit, Stiles.”  
  
Stiles shrieked and whirled around, almost toppling his chair. “Jackson! God, what are you trying to do, kill me? You know, I have had enough of errant werewolves inviting themselves into my bedroom to scare the bejesus out of me -”  
  
Jackson glared, and he wisely shut up. For all of a second.  
  
“So, what do you want? You guys always show up needing my help for something - actually, I’m thinking of charging a fee for my wolfy services -”  
  
“Just shut up!” Jackson snapped, lunging forward threateningly.  
  
Stiles barely blinked. He sat back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “Was that your best menacing growl? Because I’ve got to tell you, I’m not really feeling it. I’ve been intimidated by the best, you know, anything less and -”  
  
“God, would you _please_ , just _shut up_!” Jackson groaned. This wasn’t going as planned.  
  
Stiles paused for breath, and chewed on his lip, giving Jackson a considering glance. “This is about what I walked in on today. You and Scott. Let me guess, you’re here to tell me if I ever breathe a word of what I saw you’ll…what? I don’t know, break my legs or tear my throat out or some other frankly unlikely, over the top threat?”  
  
Jackson snorted, and slumped down on the bed. “In a nutshell.”  
  
“You didn’t need to do this, you know. I’d never do that to Scott.”  
  
Jackson covered his face with his hands, groaning into them. Well, this was a pointless and altogether embarrassing endeavour.  
  
“Do…” Stiles interjected tentatively. “Do you want to talk about it?”  
  
Jackson just looked at him incredulously. “I’d rather be dipped in honey and covered in fire ants. I’d rather have my entrails ripped out by rabid wolverines. I’d rather -”  
  
“You’d rather just ignore this and wait until the next time your wolfy instincts take your body for a ride. I know.” Stiles looked serious, solemn almost. “You might not want to talk about it, but I think you need to.”  
  
The little shit was right, Jackson knew. Didn’t make it any easier. “This…this wasn’t at all what I expected.”  
  
“Being a werewolf? Because I’ve got to say, I totally told you so. Or, y’know, Scott did, but whatever.”  
  
If looks could kill, Stiles would have been six feet under right about now. “All the parts Scott fails at? I’ve got those down. I can control my shifts just fine, and no-one’s been chasing me down with wolfsbane bullets yet -”  
  
“Oh, so you meant to wolf out on me on the field last month? In front of everyone?” Stiles scoffed.  
  
Jackson scowled. “No-one saw. Besides, my shifting’s perfectly under my control…except when I’m around him.”  
  
“What do you mean?” Stiles asked, leaning forward in his chair.  
  
Jackson lay back on the bed, staring intently at a patch of damp on the ceiling. No way he could have this conversation while looking at the little twerp. “I mean…” He paused, unable to articulate it, and gusted out a frustrated breath. “There’s something wrong with my wolf.”  
  
“Wrong, how? Psycho-like, or like, functionally, or..?” Stiles sat poised over his keyboard, just waiting for the keywords he needed to type into the search engine.  
  
“When Derek bit me, this new part of me - the wolf part - wanted to submit to him. I figured, hey, he’s the alpha, the guy who bit me, that’s probably normal, right?” he started, still staring thoughtfully at the ceiling. “But then McCall comes along, and we’re supposed to be equals now - I’m supposed to be _better_ -”  
  
Jackson cut that off before it could turn into a pathetic wail. He took a deep breath. This was battering his sense of pride, but he didn’t know what was wrong with him, and maybe Stilinski would.  
  
“My wolf - my wolf, not _me_ \- it could... sense his disapproval, and it just wanted so badly to make him happy. Wanted to…submit.”  
  
“And then the sex happened,” Stiles said, nodding, and Jackson knew that he wasn’t talking about this afternoon.  
  
“He told you?” Jackson ground out, furious and embarrassed all at once.  
  
Stiles blushed and sputtered and winced. “Well, I’m sure he didn’t mean to, if it’s any consolation - Scott just happens to have the worst poker face in the entire state of California, and he can’t keep anything from me at all. Anyone could get the fact that he’s a werewolf out of him if only they knew the right questions, and the right way to ask.”  
  
Jackson rose to leave, and Stiles lurched forward to stop him. Jackson growled at the hand on his arm, but Stiles just bulled on regardless.  
  
“Look, I know what happened and I know you’re embarrassed, but this is important. And, more to the point, I think I know what the problem is.”  
  
Jackson froze.  
  
Stiles took a steadying breath, and took his hand off Jackson’s arm. “A while back, Scott and me went to see this doctor about a cure. He seemed kind of nutty, sure, but he knew his shit. No cure, but he did seem to know a bit about werewolves. And you see, Jackson, he said there were three types. Alpha, beta and…omega.”  
  
Omega. The word thundered around his head, echoing with implications. His knees gave out, and he found himself sitting on the bed, looking up at Stiles like a child that had been told Santa wasn’t real.  
  
Stiles plowed on, oblivious, hands waving about in excitement at his theory. “I mean, if you think about it, it was kind of obvious. Dude, your daddy issues have daddy issues - no offence.”  
  
Jackson was too shell-shocked to take offence.  
  
“All that drive - all that alpha male posturing? Just this deep seated need to please your father; make him proud. I guess that’s a part of who you are - that need to please authority figures. My mind is blown that Scott, of all people, counts as an authority figure, but -”  
  
His rambling came to an end when he noticed Jackson’s expression.  
  
Jackson was too caught up in the whole ‘omega’ concept to take issue over the way Stiles had apparently analysed his family background and entire psyche. He’d be angry later, but now everything hung on his next question.  
  
“If you’re right, if I’m an omega wolf…what do I do about it? What can I do?”  
  
Stiles rubbed at the back of his head and gusted out a sigh. He threw himself down into his computer chair once more and began typing. “Look, Jackson,” he said over his shoulder. “I’ve got to tell you, the doc was the only source that mentioned omega werewolves - I didn’t come up with anything else like that when I was searching the net for werewolf theories for Scott. I can look up omega true wolves if you want -”  
  
“I know what I need to do,” Jackson said quietly.  
  
“Okay. You mind letting me in on what that might be?”  
  
Jackson didn’t answer, just turned on his heel and left. There was one person he had left to ask, and he’d apparently been holding out on him.  
  
***  
  
Derek was just finishing up dressing a deer carcass in the basement when Jackson found him.  
  
“Why can’t you just go to the supermarket like a normal person?” Jackson complained as he edged closer to the plastic tarp on the floor.  
  
Derek glanced up at him before going back to his knife work. He cut out the heart and set it carefully to the side, then began carving up the meat. “I like to hunt, and it’s free. Carpenters don’t come cheap, and I’ll save money wherever I can.”  
  
Having been cleared of all the pesky murder charges, Derek was now free to live in the old Hale house unaccosted. Unfortunately for Derek’s check book, as it stood, the place was less than habitable. Hence the frequent hiring of tradesmen. At least the house was starting to look like it might not fall down around their heads anymore.  
  
Derek stuffed his butchered meat into little Tupperware containers and then rocked back on his heels, giving Jackson a considering look. “Why are you here?”  
  
He’d forgotten to be angry for a moment, and now it came back full force. “You didn’t happen to tell me I wasn’t a beta.” Accusing. Sharp enough to cut glass.  
  
Derek snorted, and stood, stretching out to his full height. He sneered. “I gave you what you wanted.”  
  
“I wanted equal footing! I didn’t want to be some low dog, bottom of the pack -”  
  
“You _begged_ to be turned. What, you wanted the gift just so you could one up Scott? That was never going to happen, kid. It’s just not in your nature. I could smell it on you the moment I met you.”  
  
‘ _Smell what?_ ’ he wanted to say. He couldn’t make the words come out of his mouth, too afraid of what he might hear in return. His fear? Weakness? What came out, in the barest whisper, was, “Why him? Why does he get to have everything?”  
  
“Scott?”  
  
“Yes, Scott,” Jackson snapped. “He gets bit by blind freaking chance - no begging involved might I add - and turns out to be a beta. Shows me up in front of everyone, practically takes my place on the team, all the girls are fawning over him now, and he’s had two alphas practically begging him to be in their packs -”  
  
“Jesus Christ, kid, that is a lot of petty jealousy to be carrying around. Let it go.” Derek shook his head, exasperated. He wiped his hands on an old rag and picked up his containers of venison. “I need to put these away. Come.”  
  
Jackson followed unthinkingly, only pausing to eye the bloody mess behind him, and hope he didn’t get tasked with the cleanup later.  
  
Derek put the venison in the fridge and then sat himself down at the new kitchen table. He nodded at the (also new) coffee percolator, and Jackson, taking the hint, went to pour Derek a cup (black, with a shot of maple). He brought it over and sat down opposite, waiting to see what Derek had to say.  
  
“You are who you are,” Derek said simply, shrugging. "Both of you."  
  
Jackson raised an eyebrow, as if to say ‘that’s it?’  
  
“Scott’s a good kid. He has his faults, I know,” Derek said wryly. “He’s pig headed and impulsive and frequently dense. But he’s brave - you have to give him that. A born protector. You tell him I said it and I’ll cut your damn balls off, but I think he’ll make a pretty good alpha himself one day.”  
  
Jackson wanted to interject, but Derek held his hand up, cutting him off. “And once he pulls his head out of his ass and realises that he _does_ need this pack - he’ll be a good second.”  
  
“Second - in _command?_ ” Jackson sputtered, incredulous. Derek nodded. “You cannot be serious. He’s as dumb as a box of rocks! Why couldn’t I - ?”  
  
Derek shook his head. “When it comes to being tough, you talk a real good game, but a real alpha doesn’t need to prove anything. Being a _good_ alpha isn’t about acting tough at all - it’s about looking out for your pack and doing what’s right for it. Jackson, you've always looked out for number one, first and foremost, and that’s just not what I need in a second.”  
  
Jackson didn’t know what to say to that. He felt small suddenly. He wished he’d never asked.  
  
“Look,” Derek said, something consolatory in his voice, “all packs have a hierarchy, and there’s nothing wrong with being an omega. No-one will think less of you for it. It’s always been part of your personality - the wolf just brought it out. You’re just going to have to square this away with yourself somehow.”  
  
He managed a nod, somehow. He was numb inside. Scott (Scott’s _wolf_ ) _was_ better than him, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to change it. No matter how hard he worked, he could never be the best. There _was_ no squaring that away, as far as Jackson was concerned.  
  
He stood to leave, but Derek stopped him with a glance.  
  
“One last thing. I suggest you settle whatever the hell argument you have with Scott. He’ll come crawling back eventually, and this stupid rivalry had better have stopped before then.”  
  
Jackson gathered what was left of his pride and popped off a sarcastic “Yes, sir!” complete with jaunty salute. Derek only rolled his eyes and shooed him on out. That only made him angrier.  
  
Angry was good. If he was angry enough he couldn’t be afraid.  
  
He stewed in that anger all night. Ten o’clock found him outside Scott’s house, pacing back and forth like a caged tiger. He didn’t want to ring the doorbell. He didn’t want to be here. Didn’t want to come here and lower himself to someone he resented with everything he had.  
  
Suddenly the door opened, and he found himself face to face with a bemused looking Scott. “Were you planning on knocking at some point, or just wearing a hole through my doormat?”  
  
Jackson refused to let himself be embarrassed, and covered it by pushing past Scott with a muttered, “Lets just get this over with.”  
  
Scott just shook his head and laughed. “Make yourself at home. You want anything to drink?”  
  
Jackson paused in the living room, looking around, curious despite himself. “Scotch? Vodka?”  
  
Scott nudged him towards the couch. “Sit down. I’ll see what I can do, but if my mom notices it’s missing, I’m blaming you.”  
  
Scott wandered off, leaving Jackson free to snoop in peace. Cheap furniture, coupled with Scott’s (unfortunate) wardrobe spoke of a tight budget. The picture frames lining the walls were all of Scott and Ms. McCall, with the occasional appearance of Stiles. No father in the picture, then.  
  
Scott reappeared with a tumbler of something amber coloured and handed it to him.  
  
Ice clinked together in the glass as he raised it to his lips and took a gulp. “Southern Comfort?” he asked, brows raised.  
  
Scott had the decency to look a little embarrassed. “It’s my mom’s, and it was either that or Malibu.” He shrugged.  
  
“It’s fine,” Jackson murmured, and quickly drained the glass, feeling comforted by the burn nonetheless.  
  
“Um,” Scott started, looking mildly distressed, “if you’re trying to get drunk, I don’t think that’ll work anymore.”  
  
“What?” Jackson said sharply.  
  
“I tried that a while back, and I don’t know if it was something to do with the full moon or whatever, but it didn’t work. At all.”  
  
Jackson stared at Scott in no small amount of horror, and then he just had to laugh, even if it did come out somewhat hysterically. “Great. That’s just great. This day couldn’t be going any better…”  
  
Scott shifted about uncomfortably. “Did you get dinner?”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“In case you hadn’t noticed, your stomach’s been rumbling since you got here.”  
  
He hadn’t. He hadn’t had anything to eat since lunch, and on a lacrosse day, especially post-bite, it was amazing his stomach hadn’t begun devouring itself already.  
  
“I could fix you something if you want?” Scott asked, moving into the kitchen before he could even get an answer. Jackson followed, amused, and watched as he poked around in the fridge. “We’ve got enough for some simple Italian or I could whip up a stir fry? The veggies look a little limp, but they’re still good -”  
  
“It’s fine, Martha,” Jackson cracked, smiling wider at Scott’s unhappy frown.  
  
“But you’re hungry.”  
  
“I didn’t come here to eat.” That came out a little snappier than Jackson intended, but it made Scott quit with the improbable mother-henning. It also served to ratchet up the tension in the room tenfold.  
  
Scott shut the fridge. “Alright. I guess we should go upstairs…”  
  
Jackson swallowed, mouth suddenly bone dry. This was it then, he thought as he followed Scott up the stairs to his bedroom.  
  
He’d never felt so awkward in his entire life - not even during that first clumsy, half-drunk hand job with Danny in ninth grade - as he did standing in Scott McCall’s bedroom as the other boy shifted about from foot to foot, tugging at the hem of his shirt indecisively. He’d rather die than let it show.  
  
“Should we, like, get undressed?” Scott asked, probably as much to break that awkward silence as anything else.  
  
“That’s kind of the idea, yeah,” Jackson replied mockingly, and began to pull his clothes off with deliberate indifference, perversely enjoying the dark flush on Scott’s cheeks as he began to shyly follow suit.  
  
Scott went and sat on the bed when he was done, knees to his chest, hiding himself like some virgin bride. It made him look very young, suddenly, and it would have been almost heartbreaking, if Jackson had a heart to break. Instead, he rolled his eyes heavenward, flung himself down, and yanked Scott towards him with a growled, “Come here, you idiot.”  
  
Kissing a guy, he mused to himself, wasn’t so different from kissing a girl. A little rougher; a little more forceful, and kissing this guy in particular made something wild and dark and wicked rise up in his soul, begging to be unleashed.  
  
The hands on his body were different - hard and forceful and determined. No longer the hands of an awkward, inexperienced teenage boy, they knew just where and how to touch and stroke and grasp to make his wolf keen and moan in desperate need.  
  
Scott’s weight on top of him as they rocked together was oddly comforting. The little bursts of pain as Scott nipped at his neck were pleasure. But it was the kisses, long and deep and searching, with those golden eyes looking down at him as Scott’s hardness pressed up against him, that made him feel…owned. And damn if that realisation wasn’t like throwing a bucket of cold water on the proceedings. Jackson flinched, and Scott pulled back in alarm.  
  
Jackson’s need quickly outweighed his shame. He let his legs fall open in invitation, and waited.  
  
And waited. He opened his eyes to see Scott looking at him nervously. “What? Get on with it already,” he snapped.  
  
Scott kind of flinched himself then, and started chewing on his lip indecisively.  
  
“Spit it out, for God’s sake!” Jackson barked.  
  
“I - I was just going to ask if - if you wanted to be on top this time.”  
  
Between the nervous stuttering and the frightened puppy dog face, a better man might have declined that offer, but Jackson grasped the opportunity and ran with it. “That sounds fair,” he said, and he couldn’t help the obvious relief in his voice.  
  
Scott nodded, took a deep, bracing breath, and began to rummage around in his bedside cabinet. He eventually produced a jar of Vaseline with a triumphant flourish. “Here,” he said, tossing it at Jackson.  
  
Jackson caught it, shaking his head. “You do realise,” he said, unscrewing the lid and dipping his fingers inside, “that you have practically Wolverine levels of super-healing now, right?”  
  
“I’d rather it didn’t hurt at all, thanks. That’s not the point, though,” Scott said, scrunching his face up in a way that Jackson would almost be inclined to call ‘cute.’ “Things kind of…chafed…last time.”  
  
Jackson had to laugh. Scott huffed indignantly. Jackson rolled his eyes with something like fondness, and patted Scott’s hip. “Lay back, you prissy bitch.”  
  
“You say the sweetest things,” Scott muttered, scowling, but he lay back anyway, legs spread. “Fuck! Jackson that’s cold!” he yelped as Jackson eased a finger inside.  
  
Jackson ignored him, and slowly added a second finger. “Stop squirming.”  
  
Scott only wriggled about some more at the suggestion, panting faintly now, face flushed and eyes closed. It was really kind of hot, Jackson had to admit. He withdrew his fingers and pulled Scott’s legs up and apart, settling himself between them.  
  
He found himself just looking down at Scott’s face for a moment; at the softness of his eyes and the fluttering of his dark lashes; listening to the tiny little hitch in his breathing that spoke of apprehension. “Jackson, _now_ ,” he whined, and then curled his legs around Jackson’s body and pulled him down.  
  
And well, who was Jackson to argue with that?  
  
He sank inside with a low moan - his or Scott’s he couldn’t tell - and paused, conscious of that initial burn he’d felt when it had been him.  
  
He started to move.  
  
It was tighter than when he’d been with Lydia, and the positioning was a little different, but this was more like what he was comfortable with. He was in control now.  
  
It didn’t feel right. It was what he’d wanted, wasn’t it? To be a little more in control of this instinct driven bullshit? It felt good, sure, but it wasn’t _enough_. Wasn’t what he _needed_.  
  
Beneath him, Scott squirmed. “You’re not doing it right,” he huffed miserably, like there was some insufferable itch Jackson wasn’t scratching.  
  
An indignant protest was on the tip of Jackson’s tongue before Scott drove his body back to meet him mid-thrust. Jackson gasped. Again and again, hard and desperate. Jackson let Scott lead their movements, and felt relief. Felt right again.  
  
Scott just seemed to grow more and more frustrated. Finally he threw his head back on the pillow and yowled, scrunching his eyes closed. When he opened them again they were gold, and before Jackson knew what was happening they’d been flipped, and he was on his back; Scott pinning him to the bed with clawed hands on his chest.  
  
Scott wiggled back on his cock, emitting a deep, rumbling yowl, and Jackson gasped. Then Scott began to ride him, and Jackson was lost. He gave himself up to it; let his wolf loose to claw and bite and come together with Scott’s, hard and fierce and howling with pleasure.  
  
When they came - together, Scott’s body contracting around him, tighter than anything he’d ever known - for that single, perfect moment, he felt free.  
  
Afterwards, Scott rolled off with a slight wince, slumping beside Jackson, still panting.  
  
Jackson lay on his back, trying to regain his breathing. As the pleasure melted from his body, shame crept back in. He hadn’t even been the one taking it, and he still wasn’t in control. He couldn’t be. It wasn’t in him.  
  
His eyes stung as he lay there, and it was either cry or break something, so he flung Scott’s bedside lamp against the wall unthinkingly, smashing it into pieces.  
  
Scott barely flinched. He looked back at Jackson solemnly, with something that looked too much like pity for Jackson to bear. He turned over and pulled the sheets around himself, unable to look Scott in the eye anymore.  
  
He was staring determinedly at the wall, wondering absently what the neighbours would think of all the weird noises they’d been making, hoping no-one had called the cops, when he felt the soft tickle of hair as Scott laid his head gently on his shoulder.  
  
“Sorry.” The barest murmur of breath on his bare skin. “I didn’t mean for that to happen. I know that probably wasn’t how you wanted it.” It was so sincere, so God damned _sweet_ , and so inexplicably _Scott_. Wouldn’t it be so much easier if he could just let himself give in? Let himself have this?  
  
He didn’t respond, but he didn’t move away either, measuring this newfound need against his sense of pride. He fell asleep with Scott’s breath tickling the back of his neck; thoughts warring in his head.


End file.
